Towards the tail end of primary school, I was pulled aside by my

Host: The evening was quiet, the kind that feels both infinite and small at once. Rain had just stopped falling, leaving the streets slick and shimmering beneath the streetlights. In a forgotten library café, tucked away between two closed bookstores, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other across a wooden table, surrounded by the faint smell of dust, paper, and cooling espresso.

The lamps above cast soft halos of amber, pooling light over their faces, leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow. A faint jazz record spun in the corner, scratching slightly as though the music had aged with the walls.

Jeeny sat with her chin resting on her hand, her eyes tracing the thin steam curling from her cup. Jack, tall and severe, leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes fixed on nothing in particular, though his mind was far from still.

Jeeny: (softly) “Dawn Foster once wrote, ‘Towards the tail end of primary school, I was pulled aside by my headteacher and told I was joining a scheme for “gifted and talented” children, that would run from my 10th birthday until I was 16.’”

(She paused, her voice folding around the memory of the words like something sacred.) “I think about that a lot. About what it means to be told you’re special before you even know who you are.”

Jack: (a faint, humorless laugh) “Special. That word ruins more people than failure ever could.”

Host: The rain began again—light, delicate, more a whisper than a storm. It tapped against the tall windows, tracing crooked lines down the glass like threads of time itself.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been told that before.”

Jack: “I was. Once. And like every so-called gifted kid, I learned fast that ‘special’ isn’t praise—it’s pressure wearing a disguise.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, reflecting the lamplight like still water.

Jeeny: “You think pressure destroys people?”

Jack: “It doesn’t destroy them—it molds them into something hollow. You start living for applause instead of truth. You stop learning for wonder and start learning for approval. That’s not brilliance—it’s slavery in a prettier uniform.”

Jeeny: (defensive, but calm) “Or maybe it’s responsibility. Some people are given more because they can carry more. Isn’t that what talent is supposed to mean?”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. That’s what adults tell themselves when they want to feel justified for pushing children into boxes they never asked to be in.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked—a slow, measured rhythm. The record in the corner skipped, then settled back into its weary melody. Jack’s voice was quieter now, but edged with memory.

Jack: “I remember sitting in rooms full of adults who wanted me to be a mirror for their pride. They called me brilliant, promising, exceptional. But every compliment was a leash. I wasn’t allowed to fail. Not once. And when I finally did—God, the silence that followed was louder than any applause.”

Jeeny: (gently) “But isn’t that what growing up is? Learning that brilliance doesn’t protect you from breaking?”

Jack: “Maybe. But I think some of us were broken before we even began.”

Host: The rain deepened, like a drumbeat against the roof. A faint draft brushed through the cracked window, carrying the scent of wet pavement and loneliness. Jeeny drew her cardigan tighter.

Jeeny: “You make it sound tragic. But some of those schemes, those programs—they open doors for kids who’d never be seen otherwise. For every child who breaks, another one escapes the smallness they were born into.”

Jack: “Escapes into what? Expectation? A lifetime of trying to prove they’re still worth that label?” (He leans forward, his eyes narrowing slightly.) “You know what the real curse of ‘gifted’ is? It teaches you to measure your worth by comparison. You stop asking, ‘Who am I?’ and start asking, ‘Am I still better than the rest?’”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe comparison is how we find out who we are.”

Jack: (sharply) “No, Jeeny. Comparison is how we lose it.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick and tender. Jeeny looked away, her eyes glistening as if she were peering into some hidden part of herself.

Jeeny: “When I was twelve, I was in a program like that. ‘Gifted and Talented,’ just like Dawn. They told me I could do anything. But the truth was—what they really meant was that I could never do nothing. Every moment had to be productive, meaningful, exceptional. I started to fear stillness.”

Jack: (softer now) “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I chase it. I crave it.”

Host: A single candle flickered between them, its flame trembling like a pulse. Outside, the city lights glowed under the fog, turning the streets into mirrors.

Jack: “Funny how they promise you brilliance when you’re young. They forget to mention how lonely it feels at the top of that invisible ladder.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Maybe the ladder was never real. Maybe it’s just a story we tell children so they climb out of their circumstances. Even if it’s an illusion—it still gets them moving.”

Jack: “Until they realize there’s no top. Just higher expectations.”

Jeeny: “But what’s the alternative? To tell them to stay where they are? To tell a ten-year-old not to dream?”

Jack: “No. To teach them that dreaming doesn’t mean performing. That worth doesn’t depend on being extraordinary.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly on that last word. Jeeny noticed, but said nothing. She reached out, her hand hovering just above his for a moment before she pulled it back. The music shifted—a slower, aching piano piece now playing through the static.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’re still angry at that boy. The one they called gifted.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “I am. Because he never learned how to be ordinary.”

Host: The rain eased into a gentle mist, like the sky had exhausted its grief. Jeeny turned her head, looking at him fully now, her eyes warm, unflinching.

Jeeny: “Maybe being ordinary is the real gift, Jack. The world doesn’t need more prodigies—it needs more people who know how to love without proving themselves.”

Jack: (half-smiling, voice rough) “And yet, we still chase the schemes. The labels. The validation.”

Jeeny: “Because we confuse excellence with love.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like the final note of a symphony fading into the dark. Jack’s shoulders loosened, the tension draining from his face. He reached for his cup, found it empty, and set it back down.

Jack: “You think Dawn was angry when she wrote that? Or grateful?”

Jeeny: “Both, maybe. Because to be chosen is a strange kind of wound. It tells you you’re exceptional, but it also tells you you’ll always be alone.”

Jack: “Yeah… the chosen ones never get to choose.”

Host: The lights flickered once, and the record finally stopped. The needle lifted with a soft click. The room fell into stillness. Outside, the first hints of morning began to creep across the skyline, washing the world in silver.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the lesson. Gifted or not, we all end up ordinary in the end—trying to find peace in the quiet.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s not failure.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe it’s freedom.”

Host: The camera pulled back, capturing the two of them in that fading light—two small figures surrounded by books, empty cups, and unspoken forgiveness.

Host: “And as dawn arrived, their words lingered like dust in sunlight—reminding the world that genius is not the promise of greatness, but the burden of expectation—and that perhaps the truest brilliance lies not in being exceptional, but in learning how to simply be.”